“Whistler?”

“Whistling to keep up your courage.  No, rather, whistling for courage.  You are on your knees before wealth and social position, and you wish to convince yourself—­and the world—­that you despise them.”

“I?  Wealth?  Social position?” Craig exclaimed, or rather, blustered.  And, red and confused, he was at a loss for words.

“Yes—­you,” asserted she, in her quiet, tranquil way.  “Don’t bluster at me.  You didn’t bluster at the Court this morning.”  She laughed softly, eyeing him with friendly sarcasm.  “You see, I’m ‘on to’ you, Mr. Craig.”

Their eyes met—­a resolute encounter.  He frowned fiercely, and as his eyes were keen and blue-green, and, backed by a tremendous will, the odds seemed in his favor.  But soon his frown relaxed; a smile replaced it—­a handsome acknowledgment of defeat, a humorous confession that she was indeed “on to” him.  “I like you,” he said graciously.

“I don’t know that I can say the same of you,” replied she, no answering smile in her eyes or upon her lips, but a seriousness far more flattering.

“That’s right!” exclaimed he.  “Frankness—­absolute frankness.  You are the only intelligent woman I have met here who seems to have any sweetness left in her.”

“Sweetness?  This is a strange place to look for sweetness.  One might as well expect to find it in a crowd of boys scrapping for pennies, or in a pack of hounds chasing a fox.”

“But that isn’t all of life,” protested Craig.

“It’s all of life among our sort of people—­the ambitious socially and otherwise.”

Josh beamed upon her admiringly.  “You’ll do,” approved he.  “We shall be friends.  We are friends.”

The gently satiric smile her face had borne as she was talking became personal to him.  “You are confident,” said she.

He nodded emphatically.  “I am.  I always get what I want.”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t.  But I can say that at least I never take what I don’t want.”

“That means,” said he, “you may not want my friendship.”

“Obviously,” replied she.  And she rose and put out her hand.

“Don’t go yet,” cried he.  “We are just beginning to get acquainted.  The other day I misjudged you.  I thought you insignificant, not worth while.”

She slid her hand into her ermine muff.  She gave him an icy look, not contemptuous but oblivious, and turned away.  He stared after her.  “By Jove!” thought he, “There’s the real thing.  There’s a true aristocrat.”  And he frankly paid aristocracy in thought the tribute he would with any amount of fuming and spluttering have denied it in word.  “Aristocracy does mean something,” reflected he.  “There must be substance to what can make me feel quite put down.”

When he saw Arkwright he said patronizingly:  “I like that little friend of yours—­that Miss What’s-her-name.”

Grant suspected from his tone that this forgetfulness was an affectation.  “You know very well what her name is,” said he irritably.  “What a cheap affectation.”